


What's in a Name

by Tspoon



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Communication is key kids, Developing Relationship, Dialogue Heavy, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Grantaire-centric, I'm Sorry Victor Hugo, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, My First Fanfic, Slow Burn, So many commas, There is a lot of fluff, lot of side relationships that get vaguely touched on, please suffer through my random first name headcanons, so sorry for overtagging, these tags are somewhat intimidating
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-15
Updated: 2019-06-15
Packaged: 2020-05-12 12:43:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,820
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19229395
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tspoon/pseuds/Tspoon
Summary: It was just one of those things. A confusing quirk. An unanswered question. An unsolved mystery worthy of its own podcast episode. Something that past the initial hitch, no one acknowledged. It was that. A Thing. Grantaire simply had to be content never knowing why on earth all these grown adults in the 21st century couldn’t refer to each other by their first names.





	What's in a Name

**Author's Note:**

> I've never tried actually writing one of my ideas before, so sorry for how rambling it gets. I also didn't have a beta so,,, it's flawed

It was just one of those things. A confusing quirk. An unanswered question. An unsolved mystery worthy of its own podcast episode. Something that past the initial hitch, no one acknowledged. It was that. A Thing. Grantaire simply had to be content never knowing why on earth all these grown adults in the 21st century couldn’t refer to each other by their first names.

As far as he could tell, it had been like that since the formation of the group. Grantaire wasn’t there, far from it, but he’d felt the ripple effects after his friends began to join. He could remember the first time the issue had come up. He’d still been living with Musichetta, Bossuet, and Joly at the time. He’d been absently listening to some doctor show on his laptop with Joly, when Bossuet had wandered through, likely leaving for work. 

“I’ll see you at the meeting Joly?” His partner hummed.

“Not if Bahorel still has that cold. I’m certain it’s whooping cough and I have work to get done this week.” Bossuet waved him off and headed out, cursing as his elbow hit the door frame. Grantaire, who would never balk at calling himself as nosey as he way, immediately swiveled around to face Joly. 

“Ooooh, you two get in a fight?” Joly’s eyebrows twitched, but he didn’t seem to find that worth of taking his eyes off the screen.

“No? What makes you say that?” Grantaire gestured as if it were obvious, though he did feel it rather was.

“JJ he just called you by your last name. No Jean-Jacques, no JJ-”

“-No one calls me JJ but you-”

“-That’s like, stone cold shoulder treatment. Is there going to be a divorce? I pick ‘Chetta, she’s the better cook.”

“Traitor.” Joly responded instantaneously, before actually continuing. “No its just, we always do it at the meetings. It’s probably just force of habit now,” at Grantaire’s even more questioning look, he continued. “Everyone in the group does it, it’s so set that if the group has a code, which I wouldn’t put past Combeferre, it’s probably the first line.”

“You mean to tell me your little politics club refers to each other by their last names?” The image that created was ridiculous. It sounded like something a bunch of old white British dudes from the 1800s would do. Grantaire mustered the most dramatic aristocratic manor he could, dragging out the syllables, “Ohhh, yes Master Jollly, doo tell us your insights into this matter.” Joly’s cane thwacked against Grantaire’s leg, cutting him off. 

“Oh shut up, it was kind of weird at first but I don’t mind it. I’ve gotten rather used to being called Joly at this point, between the group and med class rosters.”

“Do they call Bossuet ‘Lesgle’?” Grantaire could feel his lip curl slightly in horror. “What kind of horrible cult is this? That’s torture.”

“No, I think since that’s already a nickname it’s fine, and- oh hey! We talked through the best scene, go back!” 

“JJ, even I know how incorrect the medicine in this is, I can’t understand why you like it.”

“You be quiet and replay the scene.” And with that, the conversation was over. 

It was somewhat revisited weeks later, when Joly had mentioned that he’d prefer to be called by that instead of his given name. Normally Grantaire would have pushed the matter, but at the time he’d been stressed with portfolio deadlines and finding a new apartment. Grantaire let it slide, as odd as the request seemed. The part he’d been far more preoccupied by was the suggestion that he should attend the meetings himself. 

“Doesn’t really sound like my thing,” Grantaire said, as he had many times before. He bit into one of Musichetta’s bifanas, something he was surely going to miss after moving out, and ignored their pleas. 

“But it’s a way to make sure we see you after you move.” Bossuet said, making Grantaire pause. “Between your work schedules and ours it's hard to plan, but that way we have scheduled times and places to meet.”

“I’ve also offered up the Musain, since the old meet up location got closed down. If you don’t want to participate in the actual meeting you can always help me around.” Musichetta said. 

Their arguments were good. Grantaire was rather worried about losing touch, but he really couldn’t afford to stay here, even with the three of them paying rent, and Eponine had asked him for help. She wouldn’t ask for help if she was poisoned and Grantaire had the only cure, but she’d asked him to help with the kids and he really couldn’t have said no. 

“Alright,” He put his hands up in surrender. “I’ll try it.” 

He didn’t actually make it to a meeting until a week or so after the move. It had been incredibly hectic, Eponine had her four siblings, and almost as many jobs. Grantaire was nowhere near functional enough to take on a fatherly role, and had an unpleasant idea that they could sense it. He’d just sent Gav off to start his homework, which Grantaire had some doubts of ever actually getting finished, when Bossuet called. 

“You’re coming tonight, right?” He asked. “Joly thinks you caught that bug and died. It would be great to actually see you for once.” 

“Yeah, yeah I know. I’m just not sure I can leave right now.” Azelma looked up from where she’d been reading. 

“You should go out.” She said with a soft smile. “We’ll be fine, I’m plenty used to handling the boys until Ep gets back.” She meant to be encouraging, but Grantaire only felt sad. Her eyes were ones that had matured too fast to keep up with all the terrible things they saw. The sadness was partly eclipsed by that soft smile now, but not erased.

“I’ll go,” he said to them both. He could imagine the bright smile came from both ends.

He’d rather forgotten about the name thing. Well forgot was the wrong word. It had been buried under a million other things that had demanded his focus. He’d adjusted to calling Joly by his new last name, he wasn’t going to be a dick about it and not, so it hadn’t been on the radar. It had left his mind almost completely until he walked through the doors of the Musian and had it and a hand assertively thrust into his space. 

The owner of the hand promptly made him forget the thought again. Grantaire was completely awestruck, like a man who’d been blind all his life suddenly seeing the light. The music of his thoughts swelled into an epic crescendo in the face of someone so incomprehensibly beautiful -- 

“I’m Enjolras. Grantaire, is it?” Grantaire’s face pinched, mind halting in discomfort. Distaste was clearly evident in his tone. 

“Oh, right. That.” Enjolras’s lips tightened. 

“Joly and Bossuet said they had explained our customs to you already.”

“Customs? What is this, a sovereign nation?” An excited cry bowled over the end of his remark just as Bossuet himself barreled into Grantaire far less gently than he probably intended. Musichetta followed soon after. Joly was last in the group hug, the cane connecting with Grantaire’s shin for good measure.

“Where have you been!” Grantaire laughed and hugged him again. The air felt lighter just being with them again. 

“Well I said I’d come, and here I am. What more can you ask of me?” 

“A call once in a while would be nice,” Musichetta ruffled his hair. “You helping me or sitting in with them?”

Grantaire caught an affronted expression from Enjolras out of the corner of his eye, probably horrified that not participating was something he’d even consider. It was entertaining to see such a perfect face distort in that way, like watching a pristine piece of paper curl up into ash. A dark part of Grantaire wanted to make that happen again. Ruin something just a little bit, since he’d never reach that level of perfection himself. 

“I’m here,” looking at Enjolras was like staring into a cold sun, “Might as well see what you have to say.” his face scrunched up again, “But don’t call me Grantaire, God ew, that makes me feel ancient.” And pretentious. “Call me R.”

For the most part, the rest of the group listened to him with the chosen nickname. Enjolras persisted in using Grantaire, often in a tone that made him feel like he’d been called into the principal’s office. It usually happened after all the times that dark little voice in Grantaire’s head won out, making him say something contrary or cynical just to watch the creases form in Enjolras’s brow, or to hear that tinge of anger in his voice. Grantaire could at least have pride in knowing that he’d caused some emotion in the luminous leader, even if it wasn’t the one any other part of him wanted. 

That was another problem. The jealousy had been one thing, the envy a broken thing like himself has when seeing something so beautiful and whole, that was always going to be there. But that wasn’t all there was. Grantaire could recognize the mess of hero worship and idealization that he’d managed to fester into an open wound of his heart. He just wasn’t willing to admit it to anyone other than Eponine and the bottle of liquor he’d befriended the bottom of. The others had probably noticed, ‘Chetta had started handing him water no matter what he ordered at meetings. It was for his own good, no one, least of all himself, wanted to go down that path again. 

The meetings weren’t all bad. They were mostly rather incredible actually. Grantaire might have thought it all rather futile, but it was still a gathering of minds that cared so much about a world that stretched so much farther than them. It was inevitable that even someone like Grantaire, a little slice of how unlovable parts of the world could be, couldn’t help but care about them back. That gave him the tiniest sliver of hope that maybe the world could too. 

He and Bahorel, a loud, rather giant man who Grantaire had realized worked out at the same gym he did, had become fast friends. He’d tried to get Grantaire to see him outside of meetings as well, but Grantaire had been hesitant until one meeting where Grantaire had been in a hurry and brought Gavroche along with him. Gav had nabbed his wallet at some point, force of habit more than anything, which Grantaire had fortunately caught and returned while profusely apologizing. Bahorel hadn’t gotten angry, but instead had given him a long lecture about making sure to steal only from the right people. The advice might have been questionable, but Grantaire considered the friendship a sure thing since. 

Eponine, too, made it to the occasional meeting. The first was, as she put it, “to finally see who these people you won’t shut up about are.” She’d come in with Grantaire, who’d finally started to get used to calling himself that, and lounged languidly over the chair. Enjolras was already giving distrusting glares, likely assuming anyone Grantaire brought in would only bring more trouble. 

“And what’s your name?” Enjolras asked, smiling tightly.

“Eponine.” She answered, teeth barred in the vague semblance of a smile. Enjolras’s own fell.

“I don’t know if Grantaire has told you, but we prefer to use our last names here.”

“I noticed,” Eponine said, “Has anyone mentioned to you what a weird ass thing that is to obsess over?”

“We really would prefer it-”

“Not a chance in hell.” Enjolras rounded on Grantaire then.

“This isn’t a social event. If your friends are only interested in coming to see you, then perhaps you should both go elsewhere.” 

“Oh, I’m not here to see him.” Eponine cut in, sickly sweet smile plastered on. “I’m here to see, you! Who are you?” Marius, the newest addition to the group and someone who was so hopeless at remembering to go by his last name that it was more or less an accepted exception to the rule, froze at the finger pointed his way.

“Uh, Mar- I mean P-”

“Don’t care.” Eponine said, swinging herself out of the seat and going to join Marius at the table he sat with Courfeyrac. Grantaire would’ve laughed at the horrified expression on Enjolras’s face had he not still been so close. He turned with a glare anyway.

Later that night, Eponine came into his room, brandishing a wine bottle. Grantaire hesitated for a moment, but not long enough to resist completely. A couple drinks in, Eponine gave a long sigh, turning her face into the pillow. 

“I think I get it now. About Enjolras.” Grantaire’s head swung quickly to the side, Eponine shoved his arm. “Not about him specifically, he seems like a dick with good hair.” She got quieter. “But feeling drawn to someone just because they seem whole? Yeah, I get it.” 

The next meeting, Grantaire hadn’t totally managed to sleep off his hangover from going out the night before with Bahorel and Eponine. His arguments were less pointed critiques and more childish digs. At one point Enjolras raised his volume on some rant, not at Grantaire this time, and the sound made him wince. At the end of the meeting, a small piece of paper was slid in front of him. It was a card for AA meetings and there was a poem written on the back. He looked up into the kind eyes of Jehan, whom he’d rarely spoken to but knew was close with Bahorel, and couldn’t say no. 

After his first meeting, not the usual kind, he learned why Jehan got to keep their name. The conversation was had in a diner, where Grantaire had a milkshake instead of a beer with his food. Jehan spoke openly, confidently, but quietly. They told him they had spent enough years with a name someone else gave them, they’d chosen this one and no friend or foe was taking it away now. 

“Enjolras understood right away,” they said. “ I know you two don’t really get along, but he’s a good person.”

“Trust me, I know,” Grantaire said somewhat bitterly. “But you gotta admit, it’s weird how uptight he is about it. Do you think he has some reason like yours?” Jehan shrugged.

“His business is his own. You say Enjolras so confidently, Combeferre and Courfeyrac also founded it, for all you know they made the rule.”

“Nah, it was definitely our fearless leader. He’s the one that does all the aggressive first introductions.” Jehan inclined their head. 

“You aren’t wrong, but you don’t really mind it anymore, do you R?” This time Grantaire shrugged.

“No, I’ve gotten used to it. People called me R before too, and Enjolras says ‘Grantaire’ in that scolding voice of his enough that I respond to it.”

Grantaire didn’t come to the meetings for Enjolras. That was part of it, and hell, he was probably the only aspect of the group Grantaire believed could do anything. Death itself probably couldn’t stop Enjolras from changing the world. But these were his friends too. Joly and Bossuet, Bahorel and Jehan. He had a teasing relationship with Marius, and Coourfyrac and he had good banter when the chance came. He’d learned some of their first names, but the last name thing really did just come more naturally now, Marius and Jehan being exceptions. Calling Bahorel Armel just didn’t feel right, so they’d suffer the weird looks from others that knew them at the gym or the bars. It certainly set the group apart. 

The most recent meeting had ended long after the other patrons of the Musain had wandered home. They likely wouldn’t have stopped at all, had ‘Chetta not given several pointed comments about closing up. Everyone save Grantaire had cleared shortly after, unwilling to risk the security of their meeting place. Grantaire had held back with the goal of helping Musichetta clean up, partly out of the goodness of his heart, and partly because he had hoped she’d offer him some leftovers. She’d given him a side-eye and pointed towards the tables she wanted cleaned, but Grantaire could see her wrapping something up for him in the back kitchen.

Inevitably he made his way over to the corner where the meeting had taken place. There were some discarded papers, a napkin or two that he could identify as his own from the lazy scribbles, as well as a perfectly rendered moth Combeferre had drawn to prove some point about endangered species. He tossed his own work, not quite capable of doing the same to Combeferre’s, since it seemed so lovingly done, before collecting the glasses. 

The other papers he pushed into a cornered pile, unsure of their importance. He’d paid little attention to the meeting this evening, more focused on fulfilling a commission. Once during the gathering Enjolras had even asked for Grantaire’s input, likely thrown off by the uncharacteristic silence. Grantaire would assume that was more of a snide remark than genuine interest in anything he actually had to say. He had been too preoccupied to offer a reply. 

Two more tables suffered his lax cleaning attempts before his foot collided with something under the table. The movement nudged it into Grantaire’s sight. A wallet, it would seem. And a rather nice one at that, though with this group he would have to imagine it was faux leather rather than the real thing. Grantaire picked it up, a pang of sympathy for whichever unfortunate soul had made it home before patting their pockets in that all too familiar dance. 

“Hey ‘Chetta? We got a lost wallet.” Her voice carried from the kitchen.

“It’s not one of my idiots’ is it?” Bossuet had been Grantaire’s first guess as well. 

“I’ll check. If it’s not I’ll see if I can drop it off on my way home.” 

He flipped it open, in search of ID. The lack of organization made this effort rather frustrating. A punch card for vegan ice cream place down the road was placed in the card holder slot instead of the actual ID. Finding the license was a triumph, Grantaire pulling it out with relief. The picture that met him was not any of the candidates he’d suspected. He’d have to get ‘Chetta to hold on to it after all. 

Grantaire couldn’t suppress a pang of jealousy, frustration and other emotions he was unwilling to name. Only a god among men could look attractive in their driver's licence photo, yet here he held evidence of someone achieving such a feat. He wondered how the card might classify his hair coloring, light of a thousand setting suns? That’s when curiosity piqued. Of course the card must say some abbreviation of hair color, as well as eye color, age, and- 

“Musichetta? I know you’re closed but I think I left my wallet- oh” Grantaire had reached utter nirvana, a joy that couldn’t be hindered by anything. Not the grimace on Enjolras’s face, nor the knowledge that the amount of time he’d been staring was teetering on the border of creepy. 

“No way.” His voice was quiet, more of a shocked awe than the day he’d met this baffling man. Enjolras was growing visibly uncomfortable with the intense eye contact.

“What?”

“Your middle name is literally justice?” Enjolras’s face froze. 

“How the hell — give me that!” Grantaire danced out of his way, unwilling to relinquish such a goldmine. 

“Justis, Justice, same difference. What I can’t understand is how that doesn’t manage to be the best part,” he dodged another attempt at snatching the ID away, Enjolras’s face burning as he continued to speak. “I knew the whole last name thing stemmed from somewhere, but I thought it was for something serious.” He paused, peering at the usually so aloof man in his flustered state. “Is this really what all the fuss is about?”

“Give it!” 

“At least let me take a photo of it.”

“Absolutely not” finally Enjolras eventually won over, longer arms and taller torso serving him well. He violently pulled the ID out of Grantaire’s hands. “You aren’t showing this to anyone” 

“Sure thing, Apollinaire” Enjolras gave him a seething glare. The little voice was back, urging him on. Grantaire could do naught but succumb to its will. He leaned forward “How many people call you that?”

“No one. No one here even knows it.” Grantaire did have some doubts to that statement, knowing full well the number of times Combeferre had bailed the fearless leader out of jail. He was rather certain an unpleasant amount of paperwork was involved in that. Enjolras blew a strand of hair that had come loose in his efforts to wrestle the ID away out of his eyes. “I didn’t exactly plan on adding you to the list.” 

“Oh don’t worry, Apollinaire. Your secret is perfectly safe with me.” Grantaire grinned. He couldn’t explain what about this information was so exciting to him, but it felt like sinding sunspots on the sun. A bad name was a flaw, something so inherently human Grantaire hadn’t felt Enjolras capable of. His grin spread wider. “Don’t you trust me, fearless leader?” 

“Absolutely not,” Enjolras said, repeating himself.

“That’s fair.” Oh, Grantaire couldn’t imagine how he could possibly keep this information secret for long. Eponine would certainly know by the end of the night. 

“Please, Grantaire.” There was a new emotion there, fear, embarrassment. Grantaire, having long settled for anger and frustration, was unsure how to respond. “R, I’ve never asked anything of you but please do not tell anyone.” 

Grantaire’s excitement lessened slightly. This seemed to be a real cause of discomfort. While he usually found that the highest form of entertainment, both the new emotions and some part of himself that went soft at the sound of his nickname in Enjolras’s voice made it clear this was the wrong hill to die on. He acquiesced, their eyes meeting with sincerity on one end and distrust on the other. 

“I won’t tell anyone.” 

The next time they saw each other, Grantaire was a mess. He’d come home that afternoon to find the patriarch of the Thenardier family standing in their kitchen. Azelma was on the floor surrounded by shards of a mirror, her arm was broken and bleeding. 

Grantaire had given the man a broken nose to match, and called the police while he was out cold on the floor. Boxing with Bahorel did have some benefits. The man had broken out of jail, apparently. The police had taken too long to arrive to a neighborhood like theirs, and that was all the information they gave him. Grantaire had driven Azelma to the hospital himself.   
She’d tearfully tried to recount what happened, while he did his best to comfort her while keeping them just over the speed limit. She’d told the boys to hide, Gav taking his younger brothers. When she hadn’t told her father where Eponine was, he’d thrown her into the mirror. They both knew Eponine would hear no word of this.

He’d found the boys eventually, with a policeman of all people. Not the one who had come to the house, but one who had been patrolling the area. The youngest of the three, still innocent enough to doubtlessly trust law enforcement, had gotten his attention. He’d been rather cold, but he’d kept them safe so Grantaire couldn’t fault him.   
They were all at the hospital when the alarm for the meeting went off and Azelma, her kind, selfless self, told him to go. Grantaire, empty, shaken, and spiraling, did. 

So Grantaire got himself wasted. And that is the state in which Enjolras saw him again. Grantaire, feeling cold and cruel, pushed the buttons he knew he needed to. 

“Ah, the glorious Apollo graces us with his presence” the words came before he even realized. Jehan and Bahorel, who had kept a close and somewhat confused presence since their respective arrivals, exchanged a look.

“What’s with the new nickname?” Bahorel asked, likely attempting to offer a distraction. Or perhaps he was trying to connect dots. He would have no success in that direction.

“Our dear leader is the sun that we simple planets are desperately drawn to. He stands with a grace that would make the carver of the Apollo Belvedere grimace in shame at his sorry attempt of emulating a god that we have among us. He’s… he’s…” He swung his head loosely to the side, speaking slurredly. “Jehan, help me be pofic.. poet...poetic.” Jehan offered no help but to pry the bottle from his hands..

“I think that’s enough.” 

“Of course, I didn’t mean to challenge you, great poet.” He patted the top of Jehan’s head with complete seriousness. 

“Maybe someone should take him home.” Enjolras had stayed, stuck in the position he’d been in when Grantaire had called out the near revelation. He surprisingly looked down on grantaire in more contempt than anger. Small victories. 

“And thus, the noble Apollo sets the sun on my humble mortal soul.” 

“Alright dear I think it’s time for you to sleep.” Jehan helped him stand. “I’ve got him, you all go ahead.” 

Bahorel joined them, having the better build to half carry Grantaire in the way he needed to be. Grantaire spilled into the backseat of a taxi, Jehan and Bahorel sliding in on either side. The word suddenly seemed to move too fast, and he rested his head on Jehan’s shoulder. His lips loosened in this moment of stasis 

“He doesn’t like me, does he.” 

“You don’t make yourself very likable.” He presses his forehead into Jehan’s ghastly yellow and green sweater. It was slightly harsh, but kindly said. The gentle honestly of a sort Jehan was always good at. 

“I know. I think that’s all I know how to be.” Jehan ran a hand gently through Grantaire’s hair. 

“We know that isn’t true. We all do.” 

It would seem sleeping off a hangover becomes far more difficult the more out of practice one is. Grantaire woke up late in an unfamiliar bed, the first thing he forced his eyes to focus on being an array of crystals on the bedside table. Jehan’s, he supposed. He’d never been in the bedroom, but he couldn’t imagine who else would be so eclectically decorative. 

His suspicions were confirmed as he wandered into the main living area. Jehan met him almost immediately, pressing a cup of something into his hands. Grantaire winced, realizing his right hand had bruised rather intensely since the night before. That served all the reminder he needed.

“Where is my phone? I need to talk to Eponine.” 

“We’ve already spoken to her. Azelma’s arm is in a cast but she’s ok, and the boys seem to have miraculously befriended a cop who is offering a place to stay until they feel safe in the house again.” At Grantaire’s doubtful look, Jehan continued. “She’s not sure she’s going to take him up on the offer, but it stands.” 

“You’re welcome to stay here,” Bahorel offered. Grantaire laughed slightly. 

“Very nice of you to offer someone else’s house. Or did you mean you and Feuilly’s place?” The two exchanged a look, which caused Grantaire to pause. Bahorel was never one to ‘exchange looks’, rarely leaving that much unsaid. “What?”

“Bahorel and I have been spending quite a bit of time together here, and while he may not officially live here he can definitely offer the place to a friend.” 

“How,” Grantaire was wracked with guilt, how had he been so selfish, so oblivious? “How did I not notice? Bahorel you aren’t even subtle, god I’m an asshole I’m so sorry.” Jehan put their hands over Grantaire’s around the mug. 

“Dear, Eponine called us from the hospital, I believe you had other things going on.” Grantaire was not about to let himself off as easy, but many pieces did fall together at this revelation. The hideous matching tie-dye bracelets for one. 

“And no asshole would have so many people calling to ask if he is alright.” Bahorel said, clearly trying to lighten the mood. Grantaire saw a rather different side to the story. 

“Was I that much of a mess last night?” 

“Joly did have half a mind to take you to the hospital and pump your stomach himself.” 

“Combeferre called as well,” Grantaire looked at Jehan in surprise. “He said he hopes you’re alright, and that comes from everyone in the Rue Mondetour flat.” Jehans eyebrow raised. “Also he was told to pass along the message that Apollo is an entirely unacceptable nickname.” Grantaire snorted, moving to sink into the couch. The hangover had not abated, regardless of whatever was in this cup. 

“Well he’s as good as guaranteed I use it now.” 

The name came up yet again a few weeks later, when Grantaire ran into the man himself in a coffee line at the Corinthe. He blinked in surprise, immediately recognizing the back of that head. He wasn’t in the best shape, withdrawal resenting his friends effective methods of cutting him off, but he was fairly certain he hadn’t mistook him.

“Well if it isn’t Apollo, come down from Olympus for a cup of coffee.” He could see the annoyance the second Enjolras turned around.

“I told you I hated that nickname.” 

“Already explained my reasoning in front of everyone, would look more suspicious to stop.” Grantaire said rather absently. He was feeling somewhat ill. Enjolras’s eyes lost their hardness. 

“You haven’t come to the meetings,” he said. “I heard what happened that night.” If Grantaire had been able to muster enough energy to care, maybe he would’ve been annoyed.

“News travels fast.” He muttered.

“Blame Marius, he went to visit Eponine,” Grantaire’s brow furrowed, not having heard mention of this from Eponine, “Apparently he met some girl there,” Ah “Visiting her father. He hasn’t shut up about it since. He really does blather on sometimes,”

Enjolras, he realizes, is rambling. Not making an epic speech or even ranting, just nervous rambles to fill the awkward and unusual silence from Grantaire’s end. He watches the nervous gestures, listens to the subject slowly deteriorate, and once again sees a complete and utter human. Flawed, imperfect. 

“Enjolras,” he says, silencing the other. “We should talk sometime. Outside of the meetings.” Enjolras doesn’t need to ask for Grantaire to tell he’s asking ‘why?’. Grantaire is too tired to dodge that question. “We’ve known each other long enough that how little we know about each other is getting a little ridiculous.” 

Enjolras continues his silence. His gaze curious, yet another emotion Grantaire isn’t used to causing. For a moment he wonders what he’ll do if Enjolras says no. What that would mean. Enjolras doesn’t let him continue the thought, instead giving an answer.

“You’re right.” 

Eventually Grantaire did get back in the swing of things. It was an entirely new person that drew him back to the meetings, probably to the great annoyance of all his friends that had tried. Eponine never did take that policeman up on his offer, but his husband invites them to dinner occasionally. Eponine played sick or used work as an excuse, and at first Grantaire chalked it up to a dislike for cops, or something on that vein, until an offhand comment brought it all together. 

“Wait, did you say you were dating Marius? As in Marius Pontmercy?” Cosette’s eyes brightened. 

“Oh yes, do you know him?”

“Yeah,” Grantaire answered, a million thoughts circulating. “We were in this group thing together.” Cosette gasped in realization.

“Oh! You must be R! Marius has mentioned you.” Grantaire had of course, been using his given name until now at the Fauchelevent house. He nodded. “Will you go with me to the next meeting? I’ve been terribly curious, and it would be great to know I have friends there other than my boyfriend.”

Grantaire looked at her, all bright eyes and blonde, (at the tips at least) hair. He felt no need to destroy, to mangle, to mar. She could be perfect, or she could be as flawed as any human. If he said no he would never know. It was a small realization, one that happened in the back of his head where no one would notice. 

“Sure,” he said. 

He and Enjolras had started the night getting dinner. At some point they’d ended up on a bench by a flag pole. It was some school colors, but in the low light it simply looked dark red against the stars blooming across the sky. They were talking, they’d been doing that for a while now. Maybe they didn’t know how to stop, when it wasn’t an argument that needed winning. 

“Why do you always fight me?” Enjolras asked, as if he’d read Grantaires mind. The question sounded childish, when said aloud.

“Because I used to believe in everything, then the world tore that away and made me see it as it is. Now some dark part of me wants to make sure the same happens to you.” Grantaire said, intensely wanting it to sound deeper than it was, better than it was. “Why do you fight back?”

“Because belief is all I have, and I want others to have it to.” 

He didn't think Enjolras sounded all that poetic either. 

“Do you love him?” Cosette asked as they stood watching the boys play as all children should. Perhaps one day they wouldn't remember any of it. Grantaire could pray. 

“I always loved him.” Grantaire answers.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Cosette says, and Grantaire knew she was right. 

“What does love even look like?” He asks. “Does it look like you and Marius? All sweet words and soft embraces? Or your fathers, with, well… I don’t know how I’d describe them.” 

“Love takes the shape it grows in.” Cosette gives a funny kind of smile, “It must have been one odd shape to bring Papa and Father together. And to believe they think I haven’t figured it out.” Grantaire gave her a confused look.

“That they’re together? I thought that was obvious.”

“No, rather how they found each other in the first place.” She glanced at him. “I really shouldn’t say, but it's quite the story.” Gavroche gave an excited call that pulled both their attentions away. He was sitting atop the monkey bars, waving to something behind them. An answering call made the identity clear before Grantaire even turned around. 

“Hey, got off work early and thought I’d join you.” They turned to meet the new arrival, Cosette giving a surprised gasp.

“Oh my, Eponine?” 

Seems they were going to get a story after all. 

Grantaire and Enjolras had learned a lot about each other in the weeks since their decision to do so. Grantaire had learned about when Enjolras was disowned by his family, and got lucky with a paid internship which is the only reason he didn’t end up homeless. Enjolras learned about all of Grantaire’s hobbies. Enjolras taught Grantaire a ridiculous song he’d made up to remember the names of every member of the National Assembly. Grantaire taught Enjolras how to waltz. 

Grantaire also learned about the origin of the Last Name Thing. 

“It was a completely gender neutral way of addressing everyone. It seemed practical.” They were sitting on Enjolras’s bed. It was late, and they had been laughing for hours.

“I call bullshit.” Grantaire said. “That doesn’t even make sense, pronouns would still happen. Did C squared really fall for that?”

“No, but I’d already let Courf pick the weird pun for the group name, and I think Ferre was just excited to be writing out group rules.” 

“Come on, what was the real reason?” Enjolras sighed. 

“My name is awful and while it’s easy to avoid in one on one interactions, I wanted to ensure there was no possible way it would ever come up in a group setting.” Grantaire snorted.

“Deeply flawed logic. I thought you were better than this. All it does is make people even more curious.”

“You never told, though.”

“In my defense, no one would ever think to ask me. Plus,” Grantaire rolled onto his side, making eye contact with Enjolras. “I don’t think Apollinaire is that bad. Got a pretty nice nickname out of it, eh Apollo? It’s kind of cute.” 

They watched each other for a moment, silent and smiling. The elbow Grantaire was using to prop himself up slowly sank into the mattress, making the position uncomfortable for his neck. Grantaire tilted his head downward towards Enjolras, who stared back with bright eyes.

“Justis, though…”

“Shut up.”

It was at a meeting that Grantaire finally asked. Enjolras had thanked him, during it, for offering up a dissenting opinion, as it would help him structure the argument better. Grantaire had stared down at the sketched faces in front of him rather than meet any of the living ones that had all turned toward him in surprise. Only Cosette, who had never witnessed the original dynamic, and Marius, oblivious soul that he was, did not react. People would talk, so Grantaire believed they should talk first. 

“Are we dating?” He asked, after everyone had cleared out. 

“Yes.” It was said almost defiantly, which Grantaire now knew well enough to recognize was masking fear. 

“Alright.” He said. 

The first time they kissed wasn’t a great event of any sort. It was soft, chaste, gentle. All the things neither would have expected to be at the start. It took place on a bench, not the same one under the flagpole, but one in a narrow street of Paris, with walls so old they echoed with voices of past lives. 

The first time they slept together was after a protest. It was like the colliding of planets passionate end explosive, fueled by high emotions and anger. It ended in laughter with some uncomfortable positions and a rather graceless tumble off the bed to ruin the mood. Grantaire wasn’t one to examine something like that too closely, but he thought it suited them rather well. 

They learned many things about each other. Grantaire learned that Enjolras was an incomprehensible essay writer. Enjolras learned Grantaire could make a clover with his tongue. Grantaire learned that Enjolras being seen as above anyone else. Enjolras learned why Grantaire felt the need to self destruct. Grantaire learned Enjolras didn’t mind the nickname now he knew it came from a place of affection. Enjolras learns Grantaire’s first name. 

“Why carry a torch for you when I can carry the sun?” 

“Stop…”

“You are my Icarus, only I would catch you before the fall.”

“You’re killing me I swear.”

“Really? I feel like I’m really getting the hang of this poetry thing. It's my new calling. Maybe I should start writing love letters.”

“I would literally pay you to not.”

“But the romance-”

“Only you would actually do research on how to do a Grand Gesture. Remind me to never let you and Jehan hang out again.” Enjolras twitched his shoulders slightly. 

“You don’t know it was Jehan. Maybe I just watched a Jane Austen movie or something for my research.” Grantaire reached for the book under the coffee table. 

“Seeing as this is the book on famous love letters I gave Jehan for their birthday, I’ll stick with my series of events.” Enjolras huffed in good-natured exasperation. They sat, curled against each other on the couch for a few moments more before Enjolras spoke up.

“Hey R? What is your first name? I don’t know and writing “dear R” felt weird.”

“Hmm? Oh, well I guess I never did say it to you, huh.” He gave Enjolras a light kiss. “It’s Raphael.” Enjolras sat back. “What?”

“Wait, was the R not a joke off your last name?” Grantaire shook his head.

“No, when Courf asked if it was I said yes just to make myself seem that clever.”

“I feel so lied to.” 

“It’s not my fault you took this long to ask.” Enjolras’s face turned smug. 

“What?”

“Raphael the painter. Never heard that before.” Grantaire swatted him away. 

“Raphael is a completely normal name.”

“Cliche.” 

“Oh, quiet, Apollo.” 

He did quiet down, and they settled back into a restful position. Enjolras’s laptop was playing something off Netflix, filling the silence. Combeferre and Courfeyrac could be heard talking faintly in one of the other rooms. Grantaire felt at peace, and knew that feeling wasn't just limited to this moment. Life wasn’t perfect, but it was damn well close. 

“What was all that business with the loveletter anyway? Did you really just watch some period drama and get inspired.” Enjolras shot up, completely jarring Grantaire out of his comfortable position. 

“Oh my god, I forgot! Let me get the ring.”


End file.
